


The World Forgot

by doppelgranger



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AR Febuwhump (Alex Rider), Exactly What It Says on the Tin, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Incomplete Self-Discovery, Panic Attacks, alt end to be written in near future, i'm serious you are not alex rider and you will most definitely get hurt, physical injury, please don't try this at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doppelgranger/pseuds/doppelgranger
Summary: When the strings that bind us slip through our fingers, we easily fall apart. But the treasure we find in the wreck left behind is often enough to restart.AR Febuwhump 2021 Day 12: "Who are you?"
Relationships: Alex Rider & Jack Starbright, Alex Rider & MI6, Tom Harris & Alex Rider
Comments: 26
Kudos: 49
Collections: AR Febuwhump 2021





	1. Erasure #1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Febuwhump everyone! Today's piece is based on the prompt 'who are you' and is inspired by my greatest fear as well as the song 'astronaut' by simple plan!
> 
> Shoutout to Lil_Lupin for organizing AR Febuwhump, it's been quite a ride so far!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy (and I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies as this work has not been beta-d), thank you for reading :)

****

Thank you to [Sirius4Life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirius4Life/pseuds/Sirius4Life) for the lovely cover !!

~*~

**10:27 a.m**

In hindsight, he should have been more aware of his surroundings.

_For the love of God, that was literally his job._

Alex Rider was seated on the bitingly cold cement floor of an empty room on the third floor of the Royal & General.

He stared down at the intimidatingly blank sheet of paper before him while twirling a pencil between his fingers.

What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to write? What did they expect from him?

Did he even have the answers to what they were asking him?

Rather, did he have the answers to what he was asking _himself_?

Alex took a deep gulp of air as anxiety gnawed at the depths of his stomach. He felt his lungs begin to tighten again and wracked his brain for a logical reason to explain the day's events.

His hands twinged with every flick of his fingers. The patches where the skin on his palms had been scraped off were wrapped with gauze. His neck was sore from being forced into the same position by the thick plastic that encased it.

Pulses of pain in his back mimicked a crescendo, they only got stronger as the minutes passed.

His torso was no better—the older injuries that were well on their way to recovery had reopened as a result of what had transpired only hours earlier. And the ever-present pinching in his ankle refused to subside.

He ran his free hand through his hair, trying to collect his thoughts.

As much as it pained him to recount the past four hours' worth of memories, he had no choice.

**6:18 a.m**

If Alex had bothered to look around his room that morning, the distinct lack of his personal artifacts would have struck him as odd.

He would have realized that it was as if he’d been plucked from his snug, garret-esque room with the best sunroof in the entire house, and into an impersonal dollhouse replica.

Physically, there was nothing different about the structure of the space.

The light that entered the room was the same, the band of trees whose branches just brushed the glass of his windows were the same, the stain of the wood, the furniture and its orientation, his covers—all the same. Nothing stood out dramatically.

Which is exactly why when he limped down the stairs to grab breakfast, it didn’t register in his mind that there wasn’t a single picture of Ian, him, or Jack lining the walls or shelves.

It wasn’t like he intentionally sought them out each morning to stare at the face of his dead-uncle and the reminders of everything he’d lost. Far from it, in fact. Most mornings, looking back and remembering just made it all hurt so much worse.

As he reached the ground floor, he stopped.

Jack, in all her chaotic glory, was scrambling around the kitchen throwing together a makeshift meal like she did every morning. He smiled fondly as he noticed the quarter-full jug of orange juice that the woman insisted on drinking like it was some religious ritual. She still clung to her home habits, even after almost a decade of living with the English.

He never understood it. The beverage was far too sweet to be a healthy way to start the morning.

Wrinkling his nose at the thought, he continued his way down and silently observed as she rushed to the sink with the coffee pot. She didn’t seem to have noticed him yet.

“‘Morning,” he managed through a yawn—

—And watched, bewildered, as the pot slipped from her fingers and shattered with a sharp crash.

Alex jolted and blinked with surprise as Jack whipped around to face him. She ignored the splinters and shards of glass at her feet and instead, fixed him with a startled look. “Who are you?” She asked, alarmed.

It was her eyes that betrayed her—they were always so expressive. It was because she was such an open book that she could never pull off a prank well enough to actually fool anyone. Jack was always so easy to read.

So why did she look so _confused?_

He tilted his head in query. The redhead was normally too dysfunctional in the mornings to even be in a frame of mind to joke around. And judging by the broken carafe, she hadn’t had any coffee either. Why would she start jesting now?

If anything, _he’d_ be the one telling jokes and she’d sit there sipping her morning grumpiness away.

“I’m sorry?” He asked slowly, still not entirely sure what was going on. It was too early for both of them—Alex himself was still blinking away his own drowsiness.

“You heard me,” Jack replied warily. “Who are you?”

“It's me, Alex.” He answered with a short shake of his head and a confused twist of his mouth. Maybe he’d play along; she was probably imitating some social experiment from her most recent YouTube binge (although, decimating the coffee pot was a bit much).

He started to take a step down one of the stairs and stopped the instant he noticed her flinch. At his sudden movement, she had taken a step back. This wasn’t a recorded performance—Jack hated being captured by a lens. Why was she so into this? What was she up to?

“Alex,” she tested the syllables on her tongue. “And how did you get in here?” Her eyes were still glued to his. Untrusting.

“What do you mean?” An uneasy laugh slipped through his lips before he could stop it. “I live here.”

“No. _I_ live here. Alone. So I’m pretty sure I’d notice if I had a roommate.” His eyes were too fixed on her face, searching, to notice one of her hands inch towards the knife drawer.

Alex didn’t say anything. He couldn’t—his mouth wasn’t up to speed with his mind yet. His head, still fuzzy from sleep, was now starting to spin.

_What was going on?_ Jack wasn’t serious by nature, but she also wasn’t a fan of dragging a joke out for too long. She should have definitely cracked by now, this was entirely out of her character.

The thought sent Alex’s nerves into a frenzy. He could feel the hairs on his arms and neck starting to stand as his heart rate picked up. Maybe his head wasn’t as clear as he would like, but his instincts had yet to prove him wrong.

This wasn’t the Jack he remembered—or rather, _this wasn’t the Jack that remembered him_.

_That_ Jack would greet him with a megawatt grin as soon as her eyes met his, and _that_ Jack would accidentally giggle not even five seconds into a joke because her brain wasn’t wired to be serious unless there was a life at stake (usually his).

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Jack had suddenly just become a better actor. Maybe she was taking lessons behind his back to surprise him after he’d (good-naturedly) critiqued her previous attempts at theatre.

Could this be a result of some medical condition? His first aid instructor had once mentioned a type of spontaneous amnesia.

Had Jack exhibited stroke-like symptoms when he wasn’t watching? Maybe she had developed sleep apnea—that tended to result in a lack of oxygen to the brain—hypoxia—his brain desperately supplied.

There had to be some sort of logical explanation for her behaviour. _That_ Jack would never be able to act as well as this one could.

Something glinted in the light that entered from their sunroof. A kitchen knife. In her hand. She must have found it while Alex had been busy trying to figure out if this was all some sort of a terribly executed farce. But now he’d come to conclude that she was serious.

He couldn’t detect a hint of recognition in her eyes.

It occurred to him then, that Jack would never draw a knife in such a fashion. Even as a joke.

_Especially_ , not as a joke. She was a firsthand witness of his traumas and her inherent excess of empathy would forbid her from acting in such a manner.

“Cut it out, Jack, this isn’t funny,” Alex said with a tone that bordered on pleading.

At the mention of her name, she froze. “H-how,” she started slowly, eyes widening, “You know my name.”

Maybe he was still asleep? This couldn’t be happening—it absolutely _could not_.

No.

_No, no, no_.

She was one of the only people he had left.

“ _Jack_ ,” Alex begged, his voice catching. “It’s me, Alex!”

She didn’t look any more enlightened than she did a mere few minutes ago but her eyes did soften slightly. Maybe she saw his desperation.

“Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Oh,” Alex said softly, mostly to himself. He felt his legs almost give beneath him and stumbled to grab the nearest hand-rail, barely noticing that Jack had instinctively moved forward to catch him if he fell.

“Look, you seem to be a good kid. Maybe you just had a rough night—is there anyone I can call for you?” Wonderful, she saw him as some inebriation-prone adolescent with a tendency to make bad decisions.

He hadn’t missed the way her eyes lingered on his injuries when the sleeves of his nightwear had shifted. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen the ones under his shirt. She would have probably skipped the conversation and called the police almost immediately.

At his silence, she tried again. “Are you alright?” Referring to his wounds and dazed state; that was such a Jack thing to do. Even in the presence of a stranger, she really had no qualms for danger. “You got friends, or er…anyone else, that can pick you up? Take you home? I can ring a crisis line if you’d prefer that?”

“This _is_ my home,” Alex said persistently. His brows furrowed, _how could he convince her?_

Could he still convince her? Was that possible, or was she past the point of no return?

Jack sighed with resignation.

_What was he supposed to do?_

There had to be something in his room that he could use to prove they knew each other. There were photos—his head whipped up.

After a quick glance around the room, he found nothing. There were no photos. Jack had probably taken down any that had been in her line of sight. Nothing made any sense, he was so _confused_.

The fridge doors were completely bare despite him remembering them as being the epicentre of the household photo collection. The collage of vacation pictures that Ian had intricately organized above the fireplace was gone. There were no markings on the wall where the entire piece had once hung. It was almost as if it had never existed.

_His room_.

Jack couldn’t have touched his room. She would have recognized him from the plethora of trophy portraits and polaroid-selfies that Tom insisted on stringing up.

“Give me a second,” he breathed. “I-I can prove it. I can prove that we know each other.”

“ _No_ , you can’t. Because we _don’t_ know each other.” She sounded exasperated—so much like Jack when she was done putting up with his nonsense.

This couldn’t be real.

“We do!” Alex urged, pushing himself to his feet. “I have pictures upstairs, in my room!”

He didn’t wait for a response. Ignoring the throbbing in his leg, he turned on his heel and hurried back up the stairs.

He faintly heard her call out to him but didn’t stop. He had to find those photos.

Alex quickly made his way up the main stairs and passed the second floor where Ian and Jack’s bedrooms would be. It was almost painful to suppress the urge to open the door to Ian’s room and take a look.

He didn’t have the time.

With one last look over his shoulder, he continued on his way towards the very top of the house.

He reached his door, threw it open and reached for the nearest wall, ready to grab the nearest string of polaroid prints and—

—came back with nothing.

He blinked at his empty, closed fist with bewilderment.

_What?_

The walls were barren. Painted blue—just like his room—but bare. Clean. Uncluttered.

There wasn’t a single photo on the walls nor were any of his personal belongings in sight.

Nothing.

The shelves were stripped of all books, action figures, trophies, and arbitrary paraphernalia that he’d held onto since his childhood. His sheets looked almost exactly as he remembered, but they were pristine. New. As if purchased the day before. The Turkish rug that lay half under his bed was as soft as the day Ian had brought it home from one of his trips. The holes in the quilt that Jack had sown for him six years ago were gone; the safety pins that kept his pillowcases from slipping off were gone.

His widows were also free of his decal collection. Smooth and stainless, they reflected his perplexed expression back at him. But it wasn’t just the room’s puzzling tidiness and lack of personality that rattled him

There was not a single trace of Ian, Tom, even Jack, or any other person he knew.

There wasn’t a single trace of _him_.

This room did not belong to Alex Rider.

Hands trembling and mouth dry, Alex stumbled back out the room not able to bear the sight of it any longer.

_What the hell was going on?_

Where was he? Was this real? A dream? It felt too real to be—his thoughts and emotions were swirling with such fervour—he had never experienced anything _this_ vivid. A hallucination then? But that would mean his brain was supposed to cook some abstract shite up. Not remove things—mundane things—that belonged to him and served as nothing more than a confirmation of his existence.

But wait.

Maybe it was just that.

Had he just been wiped clean off the face of the Earth?

But how was that possible?

Alex forcefully shook his head as if physically pushing the thought away. _No_. He refused to believe it.

Things like that didn’t just happen.

He was _not_ going crazy. Whatever absurdity this was, like hell would he let it get the better of him. He was Alex Rider for God’s sake. If anything, he was going to get to the bottom of this.

Maybe he wasn’t exactly in the right shape of mind, but he wouldn’t put it past MI6 or any nut-job he’d met over the course of his career to try and pull some bullshit like this. For all he knew, he was probably being watched. Assessed. Observed. As if this was some sort of test.

A test.

Of course.

_It always is_ , he concluded grimly. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier?

Well, if that’s how things were going to be, then he’d just have to make it as bloody difficult as he could for those responsible.

They’d had the nerve to pull Jack into this mess. He wasn’t sure how but they had done it and he’d make sure they realized just how much of a misjudgement that had been.

Tom.

He had to find Tom. Surely they’d left his best mate alone? But if this was MI6, then what were the chances?

Alex headed back to the staircase.

He didn’t exactly have a plan but—he stopped at the sound of Jack’s hushed, anxious voice.

“—yes, Wait, no. He doesn’t look distressed, just confused. He keeps going on about how we know each other but I have _never_ seen him before.” She was quiet for a few seconds before continuing. “I’m not sure. He had all these bruises and cuts on his arms and legs. ‘Not sure if those are home-related or something else.” Another pause. “Yeah, but I don’t think he lives nearby. I haven’t seen him around the area even though he keeps saying he’s already home.”

He was too late. She had already called someone. Likely some non-emergency helpline.

“Alright, thanks. He’s upstairs right now but I’ll keep an eye on him.” She waited while whoever was on the line responded. “He doesn’t look dangerous but I think I’ll be able to handle myself.” Pause. “Okay, thanks. I’ll keep him occupied for a few minutes. Should I tell him you’re coming?”

Shit.

He doubled back to his room.

If anyone got their hands on him now, it would only make things so much more difficult. He had to escape. He had to get out and find Tom. He could probably get himself sorted there—freshen up, grab a change of clothes, and hatch a plan.

As of now, he had literally nothing.

He checked the closet and cursed when it came up empty. It was the middle of winter and all he had to wear were his bloody pyjamas. _He didn’t even have shoes._ Had his entire room been stripped down while he slept?

He’d have to be quick if he didn’t want to freeze to death.

Alex quickly locked his door and secured the deadbolts he’d installed a few months ago.

He took a few seconds to dust his hands and gather his bearings. Thankfully, his last mission hadn’t left him completely incapacitated.

If anything, his repetitive dealings between life and death had allowed him to familiarize himself with just how addicting adrenaline could be; he could almost feel it thrumming in his veins. It dampened the twinge of his bruises and other minor lacerations but it wouldn’t last.

He needed to act quickly.

With one last tug at the doorknob, Alex made his way to the window where he easily maneuvered the latch and accompanying locks to access the roof-ridge.

He was met with a burst of frigid air that erased any lingering traces of his sleepiness.

The tree branches weren’t sturdy enough to be a security risk, but at least he’d have something to hold while he climbed down. His only options were to slip down the sides of his dormer and onto the gables or to scale the rendering of the house.

Alex decided that a trip down the gables would hurt him significantly less—he could almost feel the burn of the rough plaster against his fingers.

With a cursory glance at the empty, haunting room that was his no more, he heaved his legs over the window sill and began his descent.

It wasn’t easy; flannel was thin and prone to tearing against the rough surface of the shingles. The roof was frosty and the moisture instantly soaked his trousers. The little shards of thin ice glittered in the barely-there morning light and nipped at his hands for brief, spiteful seconds before they melted against his skin.

The sun was barely up and the streetlights had gone off a couple of hours ago. No one would see him unless they were actually looking for him.

_Perfect_.

After confirming that he was still alone, the boy began an awkward and barely controlled slide-crawl down the icy surface. It wasn’t his first time doing this, but he was rather ill-equipped on this attempt than he had been on any other.

_God_ , he hadn’t even been outside for more than a minute and the tips of his fingers were already beginning to sting. He increased his pace. It was also almost time for the resident adults to leave for work—the luxury of early-morning inactivity wouldn’t last much longer.

He spotted the shutters of Jack’s bedroom and realized that he was only a few feet away from the gutter.

_Almost there_.

Once he reached the overhang he’d be able to jump off and roll a landing to prevent any life-threatening injuries.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t aggravate any of the milder ones along his torso in the process. He grimaced at the idea but he didn’t have any other choice. Leaving through the front door was never an option; Jack would have caused a scene.

The edge of the roof was quickly approaching and he reached out to the nearby branches.

But just as the tips of his numb fingers brushed against the rough bark of a nearby tree, he felt his other hand slip beneath him. The hand that kept him secure on the roofing and _dear Lord_ —

—in his haste he’d forgotten to check the shingles he’d just placed his hand on, only for them to be covered in black ice.

_Shit_.

He was in the air before his arms could even move to grab something.

Alex sucked in a sharp breath as his left temple thudded against the cold, hard roof tiles. He felt the area of his cheek right by his eye scrape against an abrasive patch of frost as he slid and rolled down the icy incline.

His fingers clawed at the roof.

But it was futile.

All he could do was watch his surroundings swirl into a dizzying blur amidst his tumble; he faintly registered the feeling of his shoulders buffeting against the freezing surface—

—and suddenly he was face to face with the gutter.

He felt his body go airborne as he lost contact with the freezing roof.

It was like time slowed. It was mocking him, allowing him to watch as he plummeted towards the ground, eyes wide open and fully conscious, but with no way to save himself.

The frosty grass blades rushed towards his face like a thousand tiny thorns and it was only by instinct that he was able to recover at the very last second. His senses only returned to him when he was barely a foot from the ground and all he could manage was an off-balance landing on all fours with enough of a kick to send him rolling on his back.

It wasn’t controlled enough to prevent the sharp, tearing sensation that ripped through his shoulders but it was enough to avoid a broken nose and some cracked ribs.

It still hurt. Everything hurt. He lay on his back, thoroughly winded with his flannel pyjamas entirely soaked through. It felt like he’d been hit by a bus— _he couldn’t catch his breath_ —and his heart was hammering just beneath his throat.

He blinked once at the grey sky.

_Bloody hell_.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the fraying clouds above him. His arms and legs were splayed out awkwardly but he couldn’t quite feel anything just yet.

Adrenaline was still coursing through his system but his clothes were wet and it was the middle of winter. The ground was rock-hard and without a doubt, the bruising on his back would be awful.

An unexpected shudder rocked through him as some feeling returned to his limbs, allowing the morning dew to sting his skin. His pyjamas were useless now. They had to be replaced as soon as possible or hypothermia would be the least of his issues.

“Who’s there?”

_Jack_.

He startled and then softly groaned.

She wasn’t far, just around the corner from where he’d fallen. Seven steps to the left and she’d find him.

_No, no, no_.

Alex rolled onto his side and sluggishly pushed himself onto his fours, fingers clenching the frozen grass as a fresh wave of dizziness washed over him. Despite sitting up, there was still a weight on his chest, pushing down and keeping it from rising to the rhythm of his breathing.

His eyes lost focus again but he couldn’t let that stop him. He had to keep moving. To keep going. He couldn’t get caught.

He wasn’t far from the walls of the house; it would only take a bit of effort to drag himself close enough to hold onto the plaster and pull himself upright.

The rush in his bloodstream did nothing to help his breathing—the breaths he forced in resulted in pathetic wheezes. His lungs felt like they were simultaneously burning and being constricted by a tangle of vines.

_Why wouldn’t they bloody work?_

With his painfully numb palm dragging against the rough plaster of the walls, Alex staggered as quickly as he could towards the gates at the back of the garden.

“Hello?” She was closer this time, but still alone.

_Almost there._ He could do this. He’d prevailed in even worse situations.

But then came the tell-tale sign of a vehicle pulling up in his driveway—the roll of tires, the hum of an engine, and the thudding of doors as they were slammed shut.

“Miss Starbright? I’m Officer Abbott with the Met Police.” Came a steady female voice.

_Bollocks_. Jack had called the police?

A wave of panic suddenly surged through his spine and his vision swam.

The world rolled into a dizzying blur.

And then it all vanished into a sea of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are much appreciated!


	2. Erasure #2

**6:58 a.m**

When he came to, the only thing he could make out was an abstract pattern of scarlet and ochre splattered on the ceiling above and the walls around him.

It reminded him of Jack.

He wanted Jack.

At the edge of his vision, he could see the figures of other individuals fade in and out. They were dark, almost black silhouettes against the stark white walls, but as his eyes focused and colour bled back into the world, he realized that they were green. A deep forest green.

Paramedics.

There were two, as far as he could tell. They prodded around his neck, shoulders, and face, and spoke in brief, hushed voices. He strained his ears to hear them but his eyes fell shut and everything faded away before it could make sense.

**7:07 a.m**

Everything was sore. His mouth tasted coppery and his lower lip felt tough and bruised. Swollen. It took a significant effort to open his eyes and not wince at every sharp poke around his torso.

His torso? Why would they—

One of the green-suited figures let out a sharp sound of alarm and Alex felt multiple hands glide in different directions across his chest.

Oh joy, they’d probably found his old mission wounds.

They were certainly in for a surprise.

**7:32 a.m**

Alex’s eyes eased open again. He’d lost track of all the times he’d regained consciousness only to lose it almost immediately after.

He tried to move his head to the side after feeling a knot in his neck but was met with resistance. He tried again, only for the same result. Then he tried jutting his chin up.

He couldn’t.

Feeling panic build in his chest, he tried to breathe deeply—only he found that again, he could not.

His chest was trapped.

No, his _entire body_ was trapped.

He was tied down to a board or bed of some kind. A stiff flat surface covered in coarse linen. It brushed his skin and he shivered at the strange feeling.

He hadn’t completely settled back into normalcy and everything felt soft and afloat. Comfortable.

He was so, so tired.

He didn’t have the strength to fight the lulling darkness that engulfed him.

**8:41 a.m**

A breath caught in his throat, not quite continuing to his lungs, and he choked. Startling awake in panic, he gasped for air.

The murmuring around him increased in volume and urgency but Alex couldn’t make out a single word. The different sounds all blended together to form one large humming. It was like being surrounded by a swarm of bees. The prickling in his limbs didn’t do anything to ease his mind, either. But he recognized the texture of the thin sheets and the thick-threaded straps—

—right, he was trapped.

An unexpected surge of hysteria caused him to involuntarily thrash up. It was an instinctive reaction. Being held against one’s will was always terrifying. But even more so when one’s entire career—no, _life_ —could come to a halt as a result of capture.

A strong hand held him down by the shoulder, murmuring reassuringly, and Alex had to squint to see their face. It was a man, he realized. Dressed in a bright white coat. And he was alone. Any previous company had disappeared, leaving only the two of them in a curtained-off cubicle.

“Good to see you’re awake Alex,” the man said in an amicable tone. “Do try to relax, we’re here to help you. Not hurt you. Though, you seem to manage that quite well on your own.”

“Hrmfgh,” Alex muttered back. The oxygen mask strapped to his face made it difficult to reply. He couldn’t even remove it thanks to the restraints. A bit more conscious and in control of his movements, he pulled against them experimentally.

They didn’t budge.

He shifted his eyes back to who he guessed to be the primary doctor on his case; tall and wiry, bespectacled, middle-aged with thinning blond hair, and a smattering of sunspots high on his cheeks.

“Ah, don’t worry. Those are only temporary. You gave our paramedics quite a bit of trouble in transport so these were necessary to prevent any complications during your treatment.” He looked almost amused at whatever expression Alex was making. “You’ve got an impressive amount of strength for a boy your age. Even with a suspected SCI.”

An SCI?

His lack of understanding must have shown because the doctor elaborated. “A spinal cord injury. We’re treating it like one, but we’ll need to run a follow-up CT scan to be certain. There is suspected trauma to your upper vertebrae so it is very likely that your diaphragm function has been impaired—you may have found it a bit harder to breathe after your fall—but you won’t feel it while you lie down.” He paused for a second before continuing. “You may also want to thank Nurse Cheyenne when you see her. She took the liberty of redressing some of your previous wounds.”

Ah. That explained the previous breathing issues and the current feeling of fresh dressings. But why was his neck so stiff?

“As the vertebrae we suspect to be injured are near your neck, we’ve had to fit you into a cervical collar to minimize any movement and subsequent damage.” The doctor noted, noticing Alex's attempts to move his head. He then turned to a collection of machines by his side, seemingly forgetting Alex’s presence in favour of reading a few graphs and jotting down his observations.

A collar? He was in a _bloody colla_ r?

Alex opened his mouth to ask when the oxygen mask could be removed but found he couldn’t even stretch his lips wide enough to form words. He settled for emitting an aggravated string of incoherent noises until he finally caught the doctor's attention.

“Just a minute, Alex, I need to check your oxygen saturation levels before I remove the mask. Can’t risk any further injury to your nervous system, now can we?” He hummed to himself as he checked a few more boxes off the boy’s assessment sheet. “I’m Doctor Pepper, by the way.” His tone implied that he quite liked his name.

Alex couldn’t suppress the snort that ripped through his nose. He immediately groaned as a sharp stab shot across his chest. In his current state, sudden movements did not come without consequence.

“Easy,” Dr. Pepper warned lightly, setting the paper down and making his way over to Alex. “Before I remove your restraints, I want your word that you won’t try anything foolish. We’re keeping you here so that you can recover and get back on your feet as soon as possible. Your compliance will only help us both, alright?”

Alex tried a nod in his immobile state, sighing in satisfaction as the tight seal around his nose and mouth was finally lifted.

Dr. Pepper watched as Alex scrunched his face to get rid of the stiffness, keeping an eye out for any signs of trouble. When he found none, he smiled kindly at the boy. “Good, good. You won’t require any respiratory assistance as long as you remain lying down. Try not to sit up, but should you need to, you can press the red button by your cot to alert one of the nurses. They’ll help refit the mask.”

“Right,” Alex said a little breathlessly. “So what else is wrong with me?” He needed the facts _fast_ if he was going to make a move soon.

“You’re concussed,” the doctor answered. “And since you fell from quite a height, there is a very high chance that you’ve procured an SCI. Along with the CT scan, we’ll need to run a full assessment with your cooperation. You’re also a very lucky boy—not a single fracture from your fall.”

What remained unsaid was a reference to the remains of all the other injuries he hadn’t been lucky enough to avoid.

“How long have I been here?” Alex asked.

“It’s been about two hours since the ambulance brought you in. There’s an officer in the lobby with a few questions for you.”

“Officer Abbott?” Alex remembered. Her name had been one of the last things he’d heard.

“Correct,” the doctor noted with interest. “You’ve only just woken up, would you like some time to settle before I let her in?”

He didn’t have time to rest. The doctor wouldn’t allow him to leave, but maybe he could pull some strings with the officer.

Alex shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

At Alex’s nod, the doctor pushed a heavy teal curtain aside and Alex didn’t have to wait more than a minute before a stern-looking woman walked in. She was much younger than Dr. Pepper and carried herself in an authoritative way. She had dark hair twisted tightly into a bun, hazel eyes, and a fading tan.

She pulled a rolling stool up to his bed and took a seat where he could see her.

“Hello, Alex.” Her voice was as steady as the first time he’d heard it.

“Hi.” He tried to match her level tone.

“You’ve had quite the morning.”

“You don’t know half of it,” Alex twisted his lips wryly.

“Would you care to catch me up to speed, then?” She reached into her vest to pull out a notepad and a pen.

He’d known this was coming but his brain had been mightily unhelpful with constructing an explanation for the morning's events. He still didn’t know what was going on except that the only family he had left had apparently forgotten who he was. That, and the fact that he had woken up to any indication of his existence being wiped clean.

As far as he knew, there was probably no documentation that confirmed his citizenship to the UK, or anywhere in the world for that matter.

But of course, he couldn’t exactly tell that to the police.

And if his suspicions were correct, then this wasn’t a chance happening. There was someone behind it. Someone, or _something_ , like MI6.

_Bastards, the lot of them._

This type of work had their name written all over it and it wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to wrangle him into their sole clutches. They’d threatened Jack with deportation just to get his (dubious) cooperation and then trapped him for as far as he could see into the future.

Yeah, they wouldn’t have a problem with simply wiping her mind if it came down to it. And somehow they’d managed to do it.

 _Tom_.

He needed Tom. 

“Excuse me, sorry, could I make a phone call before I answer that? My…” He’d meant to say family but he couldn’t bring himself to. “My friend is probably wondering where I am.” That was true. “I’m missing school and, uh…we have this project we’re meant to be presenting today.” That was significantly less true.

Officer Abbott looked puzzled. “Why not call your parents? I’m sure informing them of your whereabouts is a greater priority?”

“They’re out of the country,” the lie slipped easily off his tongue. He’d used it plenty of times as a cover.

“Right.” She handed him a cellphone. A flip-phone, standard-issue.

Alex’s hands trembled as he reached out and grasped it. The tiny display on the front told him it was almost 9 o’clock. Tom would be leaving for school soon.

 _Tom_.

Holding his breath, he dialled the number with muscle memory and sweat-slicked fingers and held the device up to his ear. With every ring his hands shook a little more.

He didn’t realize how dry his mouth had become until there was an answering click and his best mate’s painfully familiar “Hey, this is Tom Harris.”

“Oh, Tom.” He breathed, voice hoarse. Anxious anticipation had parched his mouth like a drought. “Thank God, it’s me, Alex. I’m at the hospital right now but you wouldn’t believe what happened this morning. I woke up and Jack—”

“Woah, woah, slow down Alex!” His friend exclaimed and hope flared in his chest at what he thought was recognition in Tom’s tone. _Oh, thank God_.—“Er, which Alex is this again?” Whatever had been soaring in his chest plummeted at breakneck speed.

He knew the number was not his, but Tom should have immediately recognized his voice.

“Rider. Alex Rider.” He said shakily as his hands began to tremble once more.

No.

_No, no, no._

“Ah, well hello Alex Rider. Not too sure how you’ve got this number but I don’t think it’s the one you’re looking for,” Tom said cheerily, completely oblivious to the turmoil he was causing on the other side of the line.

Speechless.

Alex was speechless.

“Hello? ‘You still there?”

“Uh, yeah. I-I’m…Are you serious? You really don’t remember me?”

“Easy there, ‘Alex’ is a pretty common name but I don’t think I’ve ever met an Alex Rider. ‘Could be wrong, though, my history teacher says I’ve got the memory of a goldfish.”

Alex found it very difficult to swallow the lump in his throat. He was silent for a few seconds while he tried to do so. He remembered that day like it was yesterday; they’d been sitting right next to each other when Mr. Kydd had announced his thoughts on Tom’s memory to the entire class.

“…so is there anything I can help you with, or…?”

“Listen Tom, I know this may not make a lot of sense right now but please just _listen_."

“Yeah, yeah go on. I’m listening. What’s this about the hospital?”

“My name is Alex Rider. And I know this probably sounds crazy but you’re my best mate and we both go to Brookland—“

“—gonna have to stop you there. I know everyone at Brookland and I can tell you right now that I’ve _never_ heard of you.”

“I told you it wouldn’t make sense, but just—“

“And what do you mean we’re best mates? You’re sure you’ve got the right person? Listen, James if you’re pulling so—”

“Of course I’m sure! And it’s not James, it's _Alex_. I’ve been over to your place loads of times. Your mum makes these brilliant lemon poppy seed muffins and—“

“Okay, hold on there. I don’t know how you know my mother but this…y-you’re being really strange. I’d have to know you if I’ve ever let you into my house.”

“Tom, you made me buy you these bloody awful samurai films from Gilley’s charity shop for your birthday, and we’ve watched each of them more than eight times—“

“I’ve never even heard of you, how the hell do you know all of this?”

“I’m telling you, Tom, we _do_ know each other but somethings gone wrong. Horribly wrong. And I’m going to get to the bottom of it, okay?”

There was silence on the line for a few seconds before Tom cleared his throat. Alex could hear him breathing heavily over the phone.

“L-look, I…” He started.

There was a brief commotion in the background and Tom covered the receiver to shout something back. It was probably his mother. Unsurprisingly, Tom was late for school. Some things just never changed.

“Ah, sorry, that was my mum.” Tom laughed awkwardly when he returned. “You said you were calling from the hospital, yeah?”

Alex wasn’t sure where his friend was going with this. “That’s right.”

His friend sighed. “Look, I’m really sorry about what happened to you but...I really just think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“No, wait!” Alex exclaimed desperately.

“I-I really should be heading out now. Hope you find whoever you’re looking for and figure things out.”

“Tom!” Alex all but shouted.

There was another loud voice in the background but Tom didn’t stop to respond to them.

“That’s my cue,” he said hesitantly instead. “Good luck, Alex.”

Then the line went dead.

Alex couldn’t quite believe that had just happened. He stared blankly at the tiny phone currently displaying the dial screen.

“Everything alright?” Officer Abbott asked.

“Wrong number,” Alex murmured weakly. He snapped the phone shut and was almost about to give it back to the woman when he jerked at a sudden realization. He straightened up as an idea hit him. It was risky but at this point, he had nothing else left to lose. “Actually, may I try again?”

The policewoman regarded him suspiciously. He must have looked earnest enough though because she nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

Despite having only rung this number once before, Alex punched it in without any hesitation and swung the phone up to his ear once more.

“You’ve reached the Royal and General on Liverpool Street, how may we help you today?”

“Hi, this is Alex Rider. Can I leave a message for one of your employees?”

“Just one moment,” the woman on the other end of the line hummed. He could faintly hear the sounds of keyboard taps and mouse clicks in between her hums. His call was being traced. He was almost sure of it. “Sorry for the wait, could you state the recipient’s name?”

“Alan Blunt.”

He was met with silence.

An inkling of panic began to creep through his angry resolve.

“I’m sorry, we have no record of an Ala-“

“Oh, cut the bullshit,” Alex felt his patience snap. “You can tell him I’m done. With whatever this is. Whatever he’s playing at— _I’m done_." His voice cracked. “I won’t have any more of it! He promised he wouldn’t touch Tom. _He promised_ —“

The tightness in his chest was back. He could feel himself crumbling and all he could do about it was shut his eyes and clench his jaw. Not wanting to let MI6 hear him break (there was no doubt they had tapped in at the mention of Alan Blunt), Alex hung up and thrust the phone back at the officer.

He shoved his face into his gauze-wrapped hands, pushing the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing the prickling tears away.

_Why was this happening to him?_

The fact that the gravity of his situation hadn’t yet hit him meant that his thoughts were still clear. Still coherent.

Though, a hollowness had started to grow in his chest. He didn’t have anyone left.

_What was MI6 playing at?_

He risked a peek between his fingers at Officer Abbott who was in apparent discomfort.

Another idea struck him.

_He was being monitored._

He deliberately held his breath and held up his index finger to signal to her that he needed a minute to calm down—technically he wasn’t lying. It would buy him enough time for his oxygen saturation to begin dropping and _that_ was his doctor’s biggest concern. Within seconds a low beeping began to sound off to the side of the room.

“What is that noise?” Officer Abbott straightened up instantly at the sound of the machine’s alerts.

“I-I..I’m feeling a bit strange,” he squinted at the lights, feigning disorientation. It wasn’t too hard, given his state. “It's getting a bit hard to breathe. Dr. Pepper said to fetch him if anything like this happens.”

The officer was on her feet and out of the cubicle in seconds.

Not wasting a second, Alex scrambled out of the hospital cot as soon as the woman was out of sight.

As soon as he sat up, his vision swam. The entire room spun and he unconsciously rocked forward to steady himself against the sidebars of the cot. When it all settled, his eyes flicked to the curtain that Abbott had disappeared through. Good, he was still alone. But not for long.

His bare feet met the frigid floor tiles and he startled. The iciness was the strongest sensation he’d felt since he’d woken up and it was accentuated by the hard shiver that ran up his body. He was still disoriented, shaky, and struggling to take proper breaths but he’d been through worse. He could manage.

Starting off with small, easy steps, Alex eased himself into the familiar motions of walking. It wasn’t smooth by any means; at some point over the course of the day, the limp he’d developed as a result of his last mission had worsened. It wasn’t ideal, but he could deal with that later. Right now he had to leave.

He snatched off the small cordless pulse-ox that was clipped to his finger and hurried through a curtain that neither the officer nor the doctor had gone through. It led him to an adjacent cubicle that was miraculously empty. Knowing that this had been a stroke of luck, from there he was sure to be much more careful when entering the other curtained-off cubicles. After entering the seventh, he heard a crescendo of alarmed voices rise from somewhere on the floor and knew his time had run out.

There was a staircase off to the side of one of the curtains and Alex watched a panicked staff member swipe their key and rush through without waiting for the door to close behind them. There was his chance.

He whipped his head towards either side of the hall to check for threats, triggering a wave of nausea in the process and scurried towards the quickly closing exit. He reached just as it was inches from the frame and threw it open before rushing in and slamming the door shut behind him. Hopefully, he hadn’t been spotted but he couldn’t take any chances.

There were two sets of stairs without any indication as to where they would take him. Opting for the one leading down, simply because it would be a quicker way to reach the ground floor, Alex began an unsteady but determined descent. He couldn’t quite leave the building just yet since his gown was too conspicuous to be worn outside. And if he was pulled over, anyone looking at his wristband would instantly realize he was an escapee.

He could get away with the collar, though, not that he’d try to remove it anytime soon.

He was reckless, not an idiot. He was also in pain. And no matter how much he chose to ignore his injuries, he knew he’d have to face them at some point.

He made it down two flights of stairs before a door creaked open and commotion erupted from above him. By the sounds of it, they were getting closer. He had to leave.

Alex pushed open the door closest to him and slipped through before the approaching staff could see him. At first glance, the floor he was on now looked identical to the one he’d just come from. But the absence of childish decor and colourful decals confirmed that he was no longer on the pediatric floor. The lack of chaos and raised voices were also telling signs. _It was so quiet_.

Not having a keycard meant that he’d lost access to the stairwells for now. All he could do was wander around and hope that some other member of staff would be careless enough to drop one of theirs or leave a door open.

Three minutes of searching the floor led him to a vintage-stained, wooden donation bin that kindly requested clothing for adult and senior patients admitted into palliative care. _So that’s where he was now_. It even contained a scatter of descriptions specific to certain patients. Paint-splattered overalls, hand-knitted Christmas jumpers, and Nike Air Forces to name a few.

Wait.

Alex felt a stab of guilt at the direction in which his mind was pulling him but he didn’t have any other choice. This was a golden opportunity and it would be foolish not to seize it.

His hands were rummaging through the box before the guilt could grow any stronger.

It didn’t take him long to find a loose-fitting t-shirt and jumper. Lower-body wear was a bit trickier to come by but he managed to locate a pair of baggy grey sweats that he could triple-knot if he needed to; the bottoms could also be cuffed for further adjustment.

The winter season also allowed for an abundant amount of weather-appropriate donations like coats and boots. The boots were a size too big and the coat he picked wasn’t something he’d purchase given the choice but it was significantly better than risking hypothermia; a repeat of the morning's events hovered at the back of his mind. He would no longer be underdressed.

He dragged the items to an empty hallway and changed into them as quickly as his injuries allowed. He didn’t have long, the entire building was teeming with nurses and doctors who’d identify him instantly—there was probably a search progressing at this given moment.

He was just pulling on the jumper when the folds got caught on the grooves of his neck-support.

The damn collar.

Alex hissed at the stabbing sensation that resulted. His neck muscles had already begun to stiffen up and the forced movement from the pullover had strained them. God, he couldn’t wait for this all to be over.

A pinch at his wrist reminded him that the wristband still needed to be removed. Despite being in a hospital, he’d come across almost no tools sharp enough to slit through the bracelet. That was fine, the jumper’s sleeves were long enough that they gathered at his hands.

Thirty seconds later the gown he previously wore was scrunched into a ball and buried under the piles of cloth in the donation bin. Alex was just about to turn away when a black Chelsea FC cap caught his eye. The internal debate took barely a second and the fact that it would strengthen his disguise further justified his reason for snatching it up and resuming his search for an exit.

It wasn’t _at all_ because Chelsea happened to be his favourite football team.

No, no this was all for the sake of his disguise (wearing a cap also tended to make people less approachable, at least, according to Mr. Kydd).

The squeaking of badly-oiled wheels brought his attention to a young male nurse that was approaching the hall he currently stood in. He put on his most harmless-looking face and widened his eyes for effect.

“Excuse me,” Alex called, hoping his mismatched outfit didn’t make it entirely obvious that he’d just raided the donation bin. “Would you know where I could find the nearest staircase? I’m meant to be visiting my uncle but I got off a level too early and now I’m lost.”

By the man’s apparent display of impatience, Alex could immediately tell he was in a rush. Good, he wouldn’t pay the boy too much mind.

“The stairs are actually being wiped down right now but I could show you to the elevators.”

Not expecting to be directed towards the lifts, Alex paused. The elevators? He felt a tendril of panic grip his heart and his breath stuttered.

 _Elevators_.

He tried to avoid those when he could for career-related reasons but over time he’d grown fond of feeling in control—the feeling he had only when he could run in an open space. Being at the mercy of a circuit and a large metal box that spanned a great height evoked a feeling of suffocation. He could be cornered at any moment and then there would be nowhere to run.

“S-sure. That’d be great.” It wasn’t great, but he could hardly ask for the keycard to the staff staircases. Maybe he’d try to pick-pocket it off the man if he got the chance.

“Come along, they’re right this way.”

Alex followed the nurse down a hall he hadn’t yet been down and found himself at the lifts before he got a chance to figure out where the man kept his fob. Well, there wasn’t much he could do now. “Thanks,” he attempted a nod at the nurse but the man had already turned his heel and was rushing away with his cart.

The lift was spacious but Alex still kept his distance from the seven other occupants. He also pulled his cap low enough that it obscured his face in case anyone that got on was on the lookout for him. It turned out he’d only been three floors from the ground level.

Alex still couldn’t shake the ever-present feeling that he was being watched. It did nothing for his nerves, but it was part of being a spy he supposed.

 _So close_.

The elevator pinged, signalling he’d reached his destination and Alex slowly followed the crowd that left with him. There were only four other people; he hoped he’d blend in enough. After all, he’d taken the trouble of changing his attire and covering his face. The collar, however, would be a dead giveaway as its horrid shades of yellow and green weren’t very subtle.

Thirty-seven determined steps later he made it to the sliding doors and stepped through the exit of the hospital.

He was out.

Alex closed his eyes and exhaled a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, letting the crisp winter air blow against him. It felt good now that he wasn’t freezing to death.

Upon opening them again he realized that he knew exactly where he was.

There was an Underground station, not even a two-minute walk away and he’d been through there before. He knew the line—it would take him straight to Liverpool Street Station. He’d only used it a handful of times before but he was sure; the last time he’d passed through had been on the way back from a school trip with Tom.

 _Tom_.

New-found rage seeped into his veins.

He knew what he had to do.

Alex was mere steps away from the entrance of the station when it occurred to him that his pockets were rather empty. He stopped mid-step and reached into the pockets of his windbreaker to search for any spare change that may have been left behind. His hands came back empty.

He didn’t want to risk slipping into one of the trains without a ticket nor did he want to risk a botched pick-pocketing. Both could end up with him being detained. Like the elevator, he’d have nowhere to run—then he’d be truly stuck.

His eyes swept to the bike shed positioned very conveniently towards the back of the station and away from any of the station staff’s view. The morning rush to work meant there was a very high chance that someone was unlucky enough to forget to lock their bike. With his guilt replaced by a relentless determination to get his hands on those responsible for the day’s miserable events, Alex combed through the bikeshed till the gentle tugging of his hands eased open an unlocked chain of an inexpensive but sleek looking commuter bike.

It was perfect.

Making sure his movements didn’t draw too much attention, Alex walked the bike out of the shed and towards the path running parallel to the tracks of the Hammersmith & City line. As he swung his right leg over the frame, he felt the world tilt ever so slightly and had to tightly grab the handlebars to ground himself.

He was still dizzy and the aches along his torso and back were throbbing without reprieve. He almost missed the cot in the hospital and didn’t dare to close his eyes as the familiar pangs of exhaustion slowly crept up his body. Instead, he gripped the bike firmly until the wave of instability passed. At the first sign of a clear head, he didn’t hesitate to sit himself down and focus on what was at stake.

It was now or never.

Taking the deepest breath he could, Alex braced his feet against the pedals and tore off in a whirlwind of turbulent desperation.


	3. Erasure #3

**9:47 a.m**

Twelve minutes later he stood at the front entrance of the Royal & General.

He’d ripped through crowds and traffic-heavy intersections and had somehow emerged relatively unscathed (he’d fallen over once when he’d stopped at a red light; the sudden halt to his inertia had toppled whatever balance he’d managed on the move). There was no doubt that at least one person had called the police on his disruptive riding; he’d left chaos in his wake but regretted none of it.

Really, he had nothing else to lose. The little face he had left meant nothing to him anymore.

What was he if he didn’t have Tom and Jack?

He certainly wasn’t going to fall back on his relationship with MI6. His affiliation with them was superficial at best—most of the time he wasn’t even working on consensual terms.

The grossly familiar building loomed almost threateningly as Alex hobbled up the entrance stairs. He’d ditched the bike on the first step. The businesslike high ceilings and brown marble flooring triggered the same unexplainable discomfort he’d felt upon entering the ‘bank’ for the very first time. But back then he’d known nothing. He was better educated now.

A woman was seated directly across the entrance. Young and professionally dressed. The same one who’d answered his call, he presumed.

She smiled when he approached, eyes lingering on his collar and the litter of scratches on his face. “Good morning, how can I help you?” Yes, definitely the same woman.

“I called earlier,” he didn’t miss the way she stiffened with recognition. “I’m here to speak with Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones.”

Her smile didn’t falter as she made a show of searching up their names on the employee directory. “I’m sorry, there isn’t a Mr. Blunt or Mrs. Jones working at the Royal & General.”

“You’re right,” Alex agreed. “They can’t be working at the bank because they already work for MI6.”

He pinpointed the exact moment that her smile turned hard and her eyes sharpened. He also followed her eyes when they flicked to the two security guards stationed by the entrance.

Huh, he hadn’t noticed them when he’d walked in.

“MI6,” the woman said slowly. “You could get into a lot of trouble for saying things like that.”

“You can drop the cover. I know what this place is: A front for MI6’s special operations.”

The receptionist waved over the guards, her patience slipping. “Listen, if this is some kind of joke I highly suggest you pack it up and leave. We don’t tolerate allegations like this; we have serious work to do here at the bank and matters like this waste valuable time.”

“I’m not joking!” Alex said heatedly. His frustration was building quickly—all the feelings he'd unconsciously suppressed over the course of the morning were unravelling at a terrifying speed. “Alan Blunt and Mrs. Jones dragged me into this bloody mess and now they’re trying to trap me in it.”

“Young man, please calm do—“

“You know what, I woke up this morning and Jack, _the only family I have left_ , called the police on me because she had no idea who I was. How does that just happen—it bloody doesn’t! She’s been my guardian for _seven years_. And Tom—I’ve known him almost my entire life. He’s my best friend a-and the same thing happened. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence—no, _no_ , this is MI6’s doing—“

“—excuse me, we’re going to have to ask you to leave—” One of the guards put a hand on his shoulder.

“Get your hands _off_ me,” Alex snarled, ripping his arm away. He choked back a grunt at the answering burn as his muscles protested. “I’m not leaving until I speak to Blunt and Jones. They can’t do this—I did everything they told me to!”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know a Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones,” the receptionist said with exasperated firmness.

“You’re _lying_. You’re working for them, you’re _covering_ for them.” Alex spat with disgust. “I’m their little child-soldier, did you know that? I messed up somehow and that’s why they’re doing this, right?”

“That’s it,” a different guard spoke up this time. “Hold him, Karl, I’m calling the police.”

Alex cried out in pain as ‘Karl’ gripped his arms from behind—the cramp in his shoulders spasmed as the muscles stretched. The ache resonated up to the base of his neck and he jerked as the collar’s hard plastic dug into his raised shoulders.

“ _Let me go_ ," he howled.

“Stop screaming,” the guard on the phone grit out. “You’re causing a ruckus.”

Tears pricked his eyes as the intensity of the throbbing in his legs and upper body amped up a tenfold. It was no longer dull and ignorable, it _hurt_. “You really don’t know, do you?” He whispered hoarsely. “I can’t believe this, they’ve wiped your minds too.”

The three alleged bank-staff stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“Hey wait, he has a wristband of some kind.” Karl piped up. “From the hospital.”

 _Oh, shit._ He knew where they would go with this.

“He must be a psychiatric patient then. It explains his erratic behaviour.” The receptionist nodded. “Contact the hospital too, once you’ve got a hold of the police.”

“You can’t be serious!” The words exploded from his mouth. “You can’t possibly be serious after what you put me through— _Stormbreaker_. You put _me_ , a _child_ , at the mercy of an international assassin and a psychopath who conspired the _mass murder_ of British schoolchildren.” At his words, they all froze. “A-and Point Blanc—Hugo Grief, and his Hitler worshipping clone children—“ He broke into a sudden coughing fit. The outburst had stolen his breath.

When he managed to breathe in again, he continued. “Herod Sayle, Dr. Grief, Sarov, and Damian Cray. Do those names mean anything to you?”

The woman’s eyes met his. Her expression was guarded.

“I also knew Yassen Gregorovich—he killed my uncle,” Alex’s voice cracked at the mention of Ian. “Yassen’s dead now. He told me SCORPIA is where I’d find my destiny,” he hadn’t meant to tell anyone that just yet but in the heat of the moment it had slipped out. “You can’t say that doesn’t mean anything to you.”

The security men looked at each other with unmasked bewilderment. Only the receptionist seemed to consider his words seriously. With a grim expression, she pressed a button behind her desk and spoke into the microphone of her headset. “You heard that, right?” Her eyes were still critically surveying him.

She didn’t reply to whatever response she received.

“Come with me.” At her words both the guards promptly let go. They didn’t follow him as he limped after the woman.

_What had just happened? Was he finally going to get some answers? Why had they only reacted at the mention of SCORPIA?_

He took one last look at the guards then trailed after the woman quietly, temperament cooling just a bit at the prospect of _finally_ facing the people whom he could hold accountable. The pair walked through a maze of halls and the occasional staircase. They couldn’t have gone any further than the third floor when they found themselves in the middle of a dimly lit, windowless corridor.

Alex’s knees were sore and shaking from the strain of keeping up with the woman who showed close to no concern about his well being. He internally scoffed, all these people were the same. His breathing was strained and heavy; twice she’d snapped at him to stop loitering on the stairs.

He’d said nothing, choosing to grip the handrails and glare at her while he caught his breath.

Like before, the receptionist continued to rush down the hall at a pace that he struggled to keep up with.

They finally stopped at an unlabelled steel door. There was nothing identifiable about it yet the woman had stopped at this particular one, unlocked it, and ushered him inside. He stepped in first and felt his heart drop like a stone.

The room was blindingly bright with off-white walls and a cement floor. A bolted-down metal table and chair sat right at the centre.

 _No_.

He immediately turned on his heel to face his previous company, ignoring the pinch in his lower back, and only caught a glimpse of her as the door shut right in front of his face.

“Wait! Stop, there’s been a mistake!” He cried, fists pounding against the reinforced steel. “I work for _you_! Why am I being interrogated?”

He’d seen this room only once before. It was indeed an interrogation room—either the same one or an identical copy of the one that MI6 had used to interrogate Julius Grief. Alex hadn’t been allowed to watch. Hell, he’d never even found out what became of his evil twin. The only reason he knew where he was happened to be because of his employer’s negligence. During his post Point Blanc debrief Alex had stumbled into Jones’ office as the monitors were playing a recording of what had occurred in the room.

He’d been removed from her office just as quickly as he’d let himself in.

But those two horrifying seconds of footage were forever burned in his memory.

“ _Please_ ,” Alex begged.

Julius’ blanched face came to mind. With a sickly, grey-ish pallor, the boy had worn nothing more than his boxers as he’d sat under a steady spray of what Alex imagined to be freezing cold water. The bright lights and absence of clothing had left the consequences of torture open and on display. Greens, purples, and putrid shades of yellow were splashed over his skin, just like the water that rained above him.

After his exposure to the winter cold from that morning, Alex almost cried at the idea of having to take Julius’ place.

He couldn’t even look up to confirm whether there were any taps or shower-heads—the lights were too bright. He didn’t bother trying, already anticipating the shadows that the lights would sear onto his retinas.

His heart rate had picked up. As had his breathing. But a growing sense of disorientation and light-headedness told him that it was having quite the opposite effect. Oxygen wasn’t reaching his brain and black spots winked at the edges of his sight.

Speedy shallow breaths shook his body in rapid succession but it was like the air vanished as soon as it entered his body.

He wasn’t actually breathing.

Alex’s lungs burned, begging for air.

But none came.

Was this a panic attack?

It looked like one—he was hunched against the door, one palm spread against it as he tried to steady himself while the other clutched his convulsing chest.

To his mind’s omniscient eye he looked no different from one of the stock photos displayed in his school’s mental health presentations.

He would have scoffed at the comparison but that would waste whatever air he had left in his lungs.

God, MI6 hadn’t even touched him yet but he already felt like he was about to suffocate to death.

Speaking of which, he wouldn’t even be the least surprised if they were watching him.

Assessing him. Observing him. Watching him _crumble_ under the weight they’d placed on his shoulders. Was this what they’d wanted all along? Had what they’d done to Jack and Tom been the final push that would send him spiralling into madness?

Had he just been an experiment all along?

“Alex Rider,” a monotone voice crackled from above.

“ _Please_ ,” Alex wheezed. “Why are you doing this?”

“What is your relationship to SCORPIA?”

“Nothing! I-I don’t have any affiliation to them, no information—I don’t even know who they are! I was just directed there by…” Alex gasped, he was out of air, “Yassen Gregorovich.”

“What is your relationship to Yassen Gregorovich?”

“God, please, he killed my uncle and saved my life a few times. That’s it! That’s everything!”

There was a brief silence. Alex really hoped that they were satisfied with the answer he provided.

 _Anything but what they'd put Julius through_.

“What is your relationship to MI6?”

“What?” Alex huffed, half-hysteric.

They didn’t repeat themselves.

“What do you mean 'what's my relationship to you?' You blackmailed me to work for you!”

The silence continued.

“My father, John Rider, and my uncle, Ian Rider,” he panted. “Were MI6 operatives. My father died when I was young and my uncle was murdered last year.”

The speakers crackled to life. “We can confirm what you have stated about John and Ian Rider from the records we have on file. We have nothing for you, however—and we do not employ children. Tell us why you are here.”

He felt his panic subside. It was overridden by anger.

“Why am I here? _Why am I here?_ If it weren’t for the fact I woke up this morning, only to find that the last people I have left in my life somehow forgot my existence, I wouldn’t fucking be here!” He all but shouted at the top of his lungs. He hoped whoever was listening found themselves with bleeding ears. “You’ve threatened Jack before so I didn’t expect anything less, but Tom? You bastards, you _promised_ , you told me if I-I listened, that you wouldn’t touch him.”

Angry tears welled in his eyes.

“Tom didn’t do anything. Why would you do this to him?” Alex’s shoulders shook and his voice dropped to a whisper. He spoke a little louder, “Why are you doing this to _me_?”

Ignoring the outburst, his questioner continued. “Who are you, Alex Rider?”

“Come again? _Who am I_?”

He hated the fact that he’d been correct in predicting the lack of a following clarification.

Was this how MI6 would finally break him? Were they finally finished with whatever games they’d set out to play with him? Is this how they would ensure his silence?

Having the world forget him so he could forget himself?

The gravity of his situation finally hit him.

He was alone.

Alone in a room that belonged to the Secret Intelligence Services where no one would ever find him.

But who would want to find him? Who would look for him? The only ones he could possibly think of knew nothing of him anymore.

Tom and Jack.

He wasn’t part of their lives anymore.

He wasn’t part of _anyone’s_ life anymore.

What would he do now?

Alex turned, rested his back against the steel door and hugged his knees. He fixed his eyes on a spot on the floor and tried to freeze the storm of emotions roaring through him.

_Who was he yesterday?_

A Year 10 schoolboy.

An orphan who lived with his housekeeper after his uncle’s death.

An illicit fifteen-year-old MI6 employee.

Tom’s best friend.

But he couldn’t say any of those things anymore. Simply none of them were true.

_Who was he now?_

His mind went blank.

No.

_No, no, no._

He refused to forget.

Alex chewed his lower lip and cringed as blood swelled from the split. He needed to move, to clear his head.

He didn’t bother to conceal his grunts of pain as he pushed himself upright.

After regaining his balance and flexing his sore muscles, Alex hobbled towards the table, steering clear of the chair. The image of Julius’s battered body was still fresh in his mind.

There he found a sheet of paper accompanied by a perfectly sharpened pencil. He hadn’t noticed either of the items before. Alex absently brushed the sharp tip of the pencil against his fingers and swallowed hard as he stared down at the empty paper. He took a seat on the floor and balanced the sheet on his lap.

**10:27 a.m**

A physical means of organizing his thoughts.

Was this MI6’s way of drawing out whatever was left in his mind so they could stamp it out for good?

Fuck it.

He didn’t care anymore.

He caught a glimpse of his black Chelsea cap in the reflection of the table. _Right, he played football_. That was a start.

Alex scribbled down _Football: Midfielder; favourite team: Chelsea FC_ on the paper and tapped the pencil against his knee.

 _What else_?

He thought back to the mementos he could remember from his bedroom before it had been so thoroughly emptied.

_Karate, swimming, snowboarding, cross-country skiing, Krav Maga, and mountaineering._

He held his breath as images of him and Ian in the Alps and the Alaskan ranges popped into his head. He’d travelled a lot with his uncle.

_Travel._

Alex promptly listed the names of seventeen countries that he’d visited. He still didn’t know if they’d all been for Ian’s work or if even a handful had just been for exploration and skill-building.

 _Language_.

English, French, Spanish, and basic German. His study guides for Italian had arrived in the mail a week before Ian’s death. They had also been planning for a trip to Japan that summer.

Alex’s eyes grew wet and his vision blurred.

 _Keep thinking_.

He’d learnt first aid with Jack at a local community centre. He’d volunteered at animal shelters and represented his school at competitive Maths challenges (much to Tom’s chagrin).

He’d kept himself so busy to forget the hole in his life left by the absence of his parents and an uncle who was constantly occupied with work.

Jack had filled many of the gaps but he couldn’t depend on her for everything. She’d occasionally needed space to live her own life—her world shouldn’t have had to revolve around him—and had also planned for a future after her time with the Riders.

But despite that, she’d still stayed after Ian’s death. She had understood full well what the consequences would be and she’d still stayed.

He’d never gotten around to thanking her properly.

And Tom. God, he didn’t know where he would be without Tom.

His best mate. The only person who had stuck around long enough to learn the truth behind his spontaneous travels, ridiculous schedules, and unexplainable injuries. Tom had always been there for him—stood up for him, covered for him, kept him company when Alex was too trapped in his own mind to do anything but stare out a window.

Tom didn’t demand anything in return.

Nothing. Not even answers.

He’d simply wait until Alex was ready to tell him.

Tom and Jack were his world.

Regardless of what he put them through, they remained a constant in his tightly leashed and controlled, MI6-dominated life.

Who was he kidding?

Alex was _nothing_ without them.

His heart suddenly clenched with so much _hurt_ and he finally let loose the sobs that had been building in his chest.

“Alex,” the speakers crackled once more. “Answer the question.”

“Shut up!” He cried. “Shut up, _shut up_."

“ _Alex_ ,“ the genderless voice began to distort.

The tears burned against his cool cheeks and Alex clapped his hands over his ears to make the noise go away.

“ _Aaalleexxx_ ,” the drag from the speakers grated against his nerves and he rocked forward, accidentally hitting his forehead against the metal table. He gasped as a sharp twinge jolted down his neck.

“ _Alex, Alex, Alex_.”

Moaning as his hands fell away from his ears, Alex could do nothing as his body flopped against the cold, hard cement. He was quickly losing feeling in his limbs and the jarring mechanical voice pierced his eardrums. The ache in his back was almost unbearable.

“ _Alex_ ,” came a harsh, urgent whisper.

The room started to spin and he squeezed his eyes shut.

**6:42 p.m**

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

“Alex?”

His eyes snapped open.

A familiar face hovered in front of him.

Red hair framed her open concern—eyes bright with worry and tender with love.

“Hey bud, everything alright?” Jack asked. “I’ve been calling you down to dinner for ages.”

Alex could only blink.

“You better eat before you pass out again,” she smiled, reaching a hand out to help him up. “College applications can be a real headache.”

_What?_

He looked down and sure enough, the distressingly familiar _Tell us about yourself. Who are you?_ was printed above an empty response box on the sheet of paper he’d fallen asleep on.

Next to it was his phone. At his sudden movement, the screen had lit up, showing three missed calls and twenty-seven unread texts from Tom.

Tearing his eyes away, he gripped Jack’s extended hand and pulled himself into her arms. Warm, corporeal, and alive. _Real_ , he thought, as he pressed his face into the crook of her neck and held her as tightly as his shaking arms would allow.

Over her shoulder, he gazed around his room with narrowed eyes. Some incredulous part of him believed that he was still living the nightmare—that everything around him would vanish into thin air and he'd have to repeat the horrors that teased the edges of his mind. 

Could it really be? 

He almost couldn't believe it.

Alex was home.

In the arms of his family and the memory of his friend.

Surrounded by his niche definitions.

Statements of his existence.

The pictures, possessions, and vignettes that wrote his story.

 _And the people that enlivened it_.

He could not be one without the other.

And this is who he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far then congrats on surviving my crusty writing! I realize this fic could have got in a completely different and much darker direction but I am of the faint-hearted so that wasn't an option for me oops. Maybe someday I'll get over myself :')
> 
> One more shoutout! This one's to dearest creaphen for sticking with me through the mini-meltdown I had while writing this fic haha. ILY.
> 
> Once again, Happy Febuwhump!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are much appreciated!


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